


brat

by asphaltworld



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Artist Gerard Way, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Punk Frank Iero, spoiled brat gerard way, that's kind of a thing isn't it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-01-05 10:42:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18364385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asphaltworld/pseuds/asphaltworld
Summary: Gerard’s on his fifth flute of champagne, chilling out in the gallery corner when he makes his first real enemy in the Jersey art scene.Frank is a constant presence in the punk scene and at art shows, fixing bikes and taking names. There's nothing he hates more than bougie artists swooping in and trying to hang out for street cred. So when Gerard starts showing up at his favorite clubs and community centers, he does something about it.





	1. Chapter 1

Gerard’s on his fifth flute of champagne, chilling out in the gallery corner when he makes his first real enemy in the Jersey art scene. 

He has a whole wall to himself at this show, his first outside of art school. It’s near the glass front doors, which are wide open and letting in the October chill. Even as he turns his collar up he’s happy for the tangible proof that he has what it takes to do this. Not just the ability, or the talent, whatever you want to call it, but the networking skills. Gerard can be reliable and finish work on time and write a coherent artist’s statement. He can congratulate the other artists without sounding like a smug asshole. He doesn’t immediately black out at the gallery opening-- thanks partly to the very small glasses they use to serve booze. He can play this game.

Gerard’s feeling a rare moment of pride when he gets a tap on the shoulder. When he turns around, he makes eye contact with a small, delicate-featured guy who has his hair gelled up into a messy fauxhawk style. The gallery’s kind of cold but he’s in short sleeves, the better to show off the tattoos crawling down his arms. By the time Gerard realizes the hand lingered on his shoulder way longer than necessary, he drops it.

“Hey, excuse me,” he says. “Are you the artist? Gerard Way?”

“Of this, yeah,” Gerard says. “This wall. There’s a bunch of artists here tonight. Did you see the brochure at the front? They’re all amazing. What’s your name?” 

“Yeah, cool. It’s Frank. I just wanted to let you know,” the guy continues, “that I think this is really important work you’re doing here. Like, I look at this and I feel certain things click into place. Things like how there is no fucking way you can buy talent, not even after 4 years and $120,000. Man! Sometimes I think I’ll never catch up, and then vapid motherfuckers like you come around and prove me wrong. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart,” and then he’s putting his hand out for Gerard to shake.

Gerard has never been the macho type, never the first to throw a punch, but he watches Frank watching him with a big stupid grin on his face, and for the first time, he gets it. He starts to understand that sometimes words can’t get you where you want to go. 

“You-- what?” he manages, even though he’s pretty sure he knows the drill. The guy reminds him of the punks that fucked with him way back in high school. “Fuck you, man. You don’t know me.”

“I may as well, Gerard, there’s a dozen of you at every art event in this city. Even,” he pauses and stares into Gerard’s eyes with steely certainty, “at fucking punk clubs and shit. I swear, your face looks familiar. Ever been over to The Bend?” 

Gerard definitely has, so he just swallows and stares at Frank. He wants to remember this guy, too. He clenches his fists and walks away, hoping to find Mikey or somebody before he starts the fight this guy is obviously looking for. 

“Gerard!” It’s his old Painting Forms professor. “Get over here and let me show you off.” There’s nothing Gerard loves more, even in his state of emotional distress, so he lets him do it.

\---

He convenes with Mikey and assorted others later, at the bar down the street. Like all the free wine wasn’t enough. He has an audience to bitch to, if he chooses, but honestly sharing the story would be more embarrassing than the sympathy is worth. 

He finally gets a minute without the whole entourage around. It’s just him and Mikey and Gabe. Gabe makes him a little uneasy but he looks drunkenly chilled out and Gerard can’t wait a fucking second longer to spill his guts to his brother. 

“Mikey, Mikey. Mikes. Did you happen to see a tattooed little motherfucker when we were at the gallery?”

Mikey eyes him. “You gotta be more specific.” 

“Big, pretty eyes? Looks ready to brawl? Stupid hairstyle and too much gel in his hair? Anyway, he insulted my shit to my face, brutally, ‘n then tried to shake my hand. Something about me going to art school, like... He had a problem with it. What the fuck is all that about?”

“Maybe he recognized you from somewhere. Or recognized our dad.” Mikey does not sound surprised somebody’s talking shit. What does he know that Gerard doesn’t?

“Shit. That would be lame.” He tears apart a bar napkin for a second, then remembers. “Oh, hey. His name is Frank. Keep an eye out for him, he’s seriously fuckin’ unhinged or something.”

\----

Sometimes Gerard really hates that he totally fulfills the messy trust fund baby stereotype. It goes like this: spend college blowing through somebody else’s Adderall prescription, totally phone it in for the most basic assignments. Rely heavily on having the right haircut and jacket combo to pass off some bullshit, entry level symbolism as art. Pass the time in a haze and hang out with people way more broke than you for like, inspiration purposes. Graduate with no skills and use daddy’s money to fund the artist lifestyle. Repeat that last step as necessary. 

He doesn’t know why he’s so messed up, a total poster child for poor little rich boy syndrome. He’s got affluenza or some shit. When he was in high school he used to watch Prozac Nation and pine over Christina Ricci. That montage where she goes crazy over a Bruce Springsteen review fills his stomach with recognition and dread, every time. That, that is how he feels when he holes himself up in his studio doing his final for AP Art. The rails of crushed up prescription pills he blew through didn’t help either, and he spent an hour lavishing watercolor over one corner of his painting until the paper got soggy and pilled and eventually he had to just cut it off and sell the uneven corners of the painting as a comment on conformity. Private schools lap that shit up. 

Mikey’s totally messy too, but in a more glamorous and Instagram-friendly way. He even gets boxes, sometimes, of weird clothes from new brands. The fucker’s thin hips and sharp jawline get him in through almost as many doors as their family’s wealth.

\----  
Gerard has prints of his paintings and comics for sale at the zinefest. He feels a little out of place among the sea of black and white photocopies, detailing intense personal experiences and home remedies and all kinds of things. Then he catches sight of a familiar round face in the crowd, scowling at him, to really drive the feeling home. He ignores it and goes on with his day even with dread in the pit of his stomach, but nobody makes a scene. 

Frank’s there at the zinefest afterparty, of course. It feels weird to have such a strong reaction to some guy he’s met only once, but their three minutes of interaction were bad enough already.

“Oh, fuck me,” he says, and clutches at Bert’s arm. “It’s that fucking crazy guy who hates me for no reason.” 

“Yeah?” Bert whirls around dramatically and it sends his long hair smacking right into Gerard’s face. Gerard splutters and brushes it off while Bert says “Is that him? Which one is he, what’s he wearing,” rambling a mile a minute.

Bert doesn’t have to wonder for long because Frank’s on his way over, from the opposite direction. “Bert, shut up, he’s over here,” Gerard says in his ear.

“Hey,” Frank says. This time there’s no fake smile or preamble. His hand’s curled around a beer and he lifts the index finger to point at Gerard. “Do you know what the fuck a zine is?”

“Independent magazine,” Gerard says, stonefaced. Frank is unsatisfied by that answer, obviously. He heaves a sigh. 

“Not just that, man, but there’s a whole cultural meaning to the word. Like, the whole scene of photocopying at 1 in the morning, stealing printouts from your employer or whoever. Getting shit done when nobody’s paying you for it, just for the pure expression of it. It’s raw.” His arms are folded now. 

“Okay, sure,” Bert says. “Let’s fight the man with some scraps of paper! All right.” He’s rolling his eyes.

Frank ignores him and looks Gerard dead in the eyes. “Don’t try to pass off professional printings as zines again. That shit doesn’t fly with me. This is for independent artists, not for assholes like you to divert sales from punks without an audience. Isn’t gallery life enough for you?”

Gerard cannot believe the balls on this guy, to just come around and try to tell him what to do and lecture him about art. 

“What the fuck? How do you think you’re going to keep me out, exactly?”

“I know the organizers. We all just want to keep this welcoming for new artists, outsiders. Not people who are already established. This isn’t the place for you.”

“Where am I supposed to go then, exactly? You don’t seem to think I should be doing art anywhere.” He tries not to sound too whiny but he feels hurt. 

“Definitely not anywhere around me.” Frank smirks at him. “You’ll find somewhere else. Ask your agent or something.” 

“I don’t have a fucking agent,” Gerard grits out. 

“No?” He sounds surprised. “Better get on that, then.” He bounds off before Gerard can respond. 

Frank is seriously one for dramatic exits.  
“Whatever,” Gerard mumbles. Bert snorts and steers him to another section of the party. 

\---  
Gerard would really like to avoid being seen hanging out in the VIP section of the splashiest (tackiest, he thinks) clubs downtown, but his cousins are usually hell-bent on getting their motherfucking photos taken. They’re certainly dressed for it, sequins and glitter and god knows what else. He just hopes they don’t do bottle service this time.

He thought this was just going to be a family thing, go see his aging aunts and see if his mom’s doing okay, the usual shit at the family’s lakeside cabin. Have his dad ask if he’s given any thought to investing in some kind of tech startup, like clockwork. He and all the under-30s sit around on tasteful faux-rustic furniture silently for hours until the patriarch directs everybody outside to enjoy the view of the lake. They go outside every time, no matter the weather. The lake is there as a heavy symbol of what wealth can buy. Any middle-class schmuck who strikes the right balance of status-obsessed and good at saving can have the matching china and the artisan dining room set and a Pendleton throw for the couch, but with real wealth, you get serenity and comfort and a place to withdraw from the world. 

He should have known that Bailey, Daniel and Kate were gonna drag him and Mikey out to a bunch of clubs to get fucked up after, to offset the hours of pretending to be smart and responsible. 

“Ughhh,” he groans from the backseat of the cab where he’s squashed in with Mikey and Bailey. “Why don’t you guys ever tell me ahead of time about these things? Fuck.”

“You would have left before we had a chance to take you anywhere,” Bailey tells him. She’s not wrong, and she has a little over two decades of experience to pull from.

“Yeah, well, I’m here and I look like shit,” Gerard sulks. “I’m gonna stand out so bad. Mikey, magically enough, is dressed just right for the occasion. Wanna tell me what that’s about?” 

Mikey shrugs, shoulders moving dramatically under his designer patchwork denim jacket and floral shirt. That fucker knew. 

Gerard decides to voice this out loud. “That fucker knew!” he says, maybe a little loudly. They pregamed with hard liquor, something he usually avoids because he’s not trying to exhaust his liver before he turns 30. 

“You always look great,” Bailey says. “We get there and people are blinded by your long, luscious locks. They don’t even notice your ragged outfits.” 

For the visit to family, Gerard switched out his usual battered-but-expensive army jacket for a plain black blazer. He’s not ragged. If anything he’s too clean-cut, for once. Under the blazer is a vintage Cramps shirt and it’s not like he isn’t proud of it but he has other clothes to go clubbing in, for god’s sake. When he notices Bailey dusting shimmery powder over her cheekbones, he reaches out a hand. “Fork it over. C’mon, at least let me get a little pretty. If I have to be here.” 

He smears some over his eyelids and tries to hand it back to Bailey, but she dabs the brush in one more time and leans across Mikey to add some to his cheekbones and the tip of his nose. “There. I just highlighted your best assets. You can thank me once you look in the mirror,” she says, tossing long brown hair. 

Mikey chooses that moment to pull them into a selfie with him. He and Bailey look glamorous and Gerard looks surprised. 

When they do get to Blue Edge, it takes them fucking forever to find Kate and Daniel, and Bailey forces them to make circuits around the club and doesn’t even let Gerard go get a drink. Mikey’s silent preening is like catnip to the kind of people who go to this place, they quickly find out, and he’s buzzed enough to enjoy the attention. Gerard’s not the type for this kind of place, so as soon as Bailey lets go of his wrist it’s off to the bar for a double whiskey.

Eventually they find the rest of their group and by that time everybody’s had enough of the Blue fucking Edge. So they head to another place about a block away. Over there, Gerard starts with a vodka Redbull, then another, since they left him alone at the bar. He’s not in the mood for meeting new people. Soon enough Bailey and Kate stop trying to pull him away from the bar to meet random straight dudes he doesn’t want to talk to. 

Mikey is off posing with other waiflike men in adventurous outfits, of course. His entire Instagram feed is him lit by neon or washed out by strobe lights, in whatever club he’s into at the time. When Gerard glances over his shoulder he and someone in a shimmery blue catsuit are angling their faces at extreme degrees, trying to find the best pose to catch the light. Typical. 

Gerard does get drunk, eventually. Not just that, but when all the booze catches up to him and he has to head over to the disgusting bathroom some guy he forgot from prep school wants him to do a bump of something, and who the hell is he to refuse? So he’s feeling nice and comfortably fucked up when he realizes he hasn’t seen his cousins or Mikey in a long, long time. For a second he feels lost, abandoned, but then Gerard remembers he’s an adult and he does this almost weekly anyway.

Maybe he can finally get the hell out of here. So that’s exactly what he does. Gerard leaves the club with its shiny floors and overdressed, perfumed patrons. It’s not as smooth as he imagined it in his head, and he can’t seem to catch a cab, so he wanders down some alley and kind of sinks down against the damp wall. This, this is where he belongs, with all the other slimy creatures of the night. The lights from above bounce off the wet asphalt and he’s totally transfixed for a minute before he realizes he’s really about to become one with the alley and puke his goddamn guts up. He kind of knows the drill by this point. So he gets ready for it, on his hands and knees on the ground so he doesn’t puke all over himself and mark himself as an easy, wasted target for the rest of the night. The ground’s gritty and rough against his palms.

All of a sudden he hears a choir of masculine laughs bouncing from somewhere at the other end of the alley. Fuck. He’s not sure he should get up and move. Is it worth it, to risk getting hassled or somebody calling the cops? That’s his last thought before the ground is rising up to meet him and thick saliva drips out of his mouth onto the pavement. Okay, he can deal with this. He coughs, and it shakes his core, and then he’s puking. 

“Ohhhh, shit!” someone jeers. Then there are more voices. Gerard doesn’t pay attention to the rest, but he feels a warm hand on his back. “You dumb motherfucker,” says a familiar voice, surprisingly close to his ear. “You really can’t hold your booze, can you?” He doesn’t answer, just keeps puking, but somehow none of it gets in his hair. He thinks it might have something to do with the warmth and the voice but maybe he’s just perfected his craft. 

The rest of the night fades into a pleasant blur, like he wanted all along, but the next morning he wakes up on his own couch, with his wallet thankfully intact. 

“Fuuuuuck,” he groans. He’s never going out again. 

And then his phone rings, of course. He lets it go to voicemail. 

When he can face the world again, a couple hours later, he finds like six missed calls from Mikey. Whatever. 

There’s a text, too: arnt you tired of hanging out w ppl who dont know how to use soap? u shld come out w us more oftn. 

Gerard’s in the process of rolling his eyes when another pings in: srsly deodorant is part of the social contract

punk sure SMELLS dead. just thinking of last party u gave me an invite 4  
\--

This time Bert’s dragged him out to some warehouse party on the edge of town. He can’t even tell what it was used for before it just turned into a place to host illegal parties. He has a little bottle of vodka in the inner pocket of his jacket and combat boots on his feet. He’s prepared for the likely possibility he just gets fucked up and passes out in a corner. 

The vibe is strange, but not hostile, and Bert’s wiry frame is always vibrating with energy so he draws people to them. Soon there’s a group of people and they’re all talking and Bert is saying loud, upsetting things. 

Gerard hasn’t been laid in a little while and would like for that to change. So he’s standing on the edge of the group, considering detaching but eyeing this girl with black slashes painted across her eyes and a shaved head and cargo pants. She isn’t returning the favor but maybe she just hasn’t noticed him. A little more booze and he’ll try his luck. 

As Gerard’s scanning the crowd, trying to get his bearings, he sees that Frank is lurking in some corner. He’s only in a black tanktop and shorts, so Gerard can see way more of his ink than usual. He’s got script across his back and other marks edging toward his neck, but he can see the line where Frank had to stop and keep things clean. So he can keep a straight job, Gerard bets. The little shit’s not as punk as he likes to front. 

By the time Gerard shifts his attention back to the group, the girl with the shaved head is gone, of course. Lost in the sea of humans swarming around in the building. He slinks back into place next to Bert, just in time for him to grab Gerard by the scruff of his neck and shake him around as part of some joke. The booze is working its way through his system by now, so he manages a lazy smile even though it kind of bugs him.

“Your boyfriend’s here,” Bert is saying, when Gerard manages to tune back in.

“What?” He draws the word out. He’s been bored so he’s gone through about a quarter of the bottle already. 

“Turn around. I can never remember his name, man.”

It’s Frank, as always. He’s like a curse, or an annoying habit you never noticed you have until someone points it out and then it’s all you can see. Omnipresent. 

“Oh goddamn.” He wants Bert to let go of his arm so he can turn around, leave, something. “Don’t let me get sloppy over there.” 

“Don’t worry, I won’t,” Bert says confidently. “Wanna go watch Matt do a kegstand?”

“Kegstand? What is this, a fucking frat party?” Gerard complains but he’s going along anyway, of fucking course. 

The kegstand is dramatic and borders on an extreme sport. Bert’s screaming and cheering, per usual, but so is Gerard. There’s nothing to bring drunk people together like stupid, dangerous stunts. He turns to tell Bert this wisdom.

“Fucking sick! I love wasted boys,” he yells in his ear. Bert grins and nods.

Gerard doesn’t run into the shaved head girl again, but the party is full of hot and sullen looking people for him to admire instead. He finishes his bottle and someone gives him a swig of something honey-colored and strong enough to burn his throat a little even after all that vodka. 

That last drink was a mistake. He loses track of his friends and sits unsteadily on a crate near the wall. He leans his head back and his thoughts are full of shame and regret over taking so long to secure a second show. Everybody’s asking him what his next move is gonna be but he’s just paralyzed. He hasn’t done that much work, and he keeps tossing out what he has done. He’s been doing nostalgia shit about his childhood love for comics, which he knows would get totally panned in reviews and also everyone would personally give him shit for. Anyway, he knows there’s no depth to it. It’s all just... empty. 

He’s startled from his slow, spiraling thoughts by a casual slap on the shoulder from someone passing by. The dude brushes past him and he sees that it’s a familiar little bastard. He turns and gives Gerard a lazy, smug smile. 

“Oh, motherfucker,” Gerard mumbles, then he’s on his feet, advancing like a goddamn lunatic, but he can't help it. “Who the fuck are you anyway? And how do you know me?” His voice is too loud. The hot girl from earlier is looking at him like he’s scum, her brow crinkling. Maybe he is. 

“Clearly you don’t have a bike, because if you did, you’d already know me,” Frank says, his arms folded. He looks like he has time for this, whatever “this” ends up being. “You know Counter Point, right?”

“Yeah, sure. How do you know me?” Gerard repeats.

Frank says, “Well, I do know you. I heard all about you in my one year of school, before I had to drop out. Shit just happened for you, obstacles fell away and professors were blinded by your dad’s credit cards. Gerard Way, the biggest hack in the art department.”

Gerard rolls his eyes. “Okay, that’s the story you heard. I get that money makes shit easier for people, but I worked hard for four years straight.” He winces as he hears himself, but he can’t stop. “My art belongs places like this. It’s not the kind of stuff I can waltz over to the Festival of Arts.”

“You could! Stop snatching for punk cred and commit to something instead of doing shitty work and passing it off as counterculture.” Frank lets that sink in for a second. “You’re not fooling anybody except the people blinded from cool by their trust funds or fucking Roth IRAs.” 

Gerard is pissed now, really pissed. This has gone on for way too long. It doesn’t help that he’s drunk and bleary and the consequences seem totally irrelevant, distant as stars. 

He scowls and takes a step towards Frank, as a warning, but he stumbles noticeably in the drama of it all. It’s really fucking embarrassing. 

“Hey, man, I don’t fight with drunks,” Frank says, holding up his hands. Gerard, already pink from the heat and the bodies around him and the drinks, turns a deeper shade of red at that and turns his face to the floor.. He can’t fucking cope with this. He keeps his mouth shut, though. He figures that might be enough to grant him a shred or two of dignity as he shakes his head and retreats. 

“Still can’t handle your booze, huh?” Frank laughs when Gerard turns to leave. 

Gerard stops dead. “Wait, wha? Why does that sound so familiar?” He expects Frank to flounce away dramatically like he always does after he gets his zingers in, but this time Frank stops. He doesn’t look as bitchy as normal.

“So you really don’t remember that night, huh?” he asks. “I had a bet with my friend Matt. You were such a fucking mess. Your makeup looked real nice, though,” he says and his mouth is turned up at the corner like he’s holding back a smile. 

Gerard runs a hand through his hair and a bunch of nightmare scenarios rush through his head all at once. “Oh my god.” This is not good. 

“I didn’t try to fuck you or anything,” Frank says quickly. “I’m not that kind of scumbag. I just held your hair back, princess.” 

That’s the nicest thing Frank’s ever said to him, which isn’t saying much. It’s seriously comforting to hear, though, because it did cross his mind. But when somebody says “I didn’t try to fuck you” that implies there was something to hold back there. And princess? Really? He’s gotta laugh. He does laugh, surprising himself.

“Princess is the most fitting title I can think of for you,” Frank says. “I got you a cab, too. Never let it be said punks are without honor.” 

Gerard shakes his head. “Okay. Uh, thank you. If you’re being serious. Honestly, I was kind of surprised to wake up in my own place after the night I had.” 

Frank shrugs and directs his attention to his fingernails. “Don’t mention it. Really, no need to ever bring it up again. I just thought maybe you should know.” 

“Cool, man.” Gerard brushes past him, claps him on the shoulder as he goes. He does it a little harder than necessary but Frank seems unfazed.  
\----

Going out has not been the salve it used to be, lately. The booze doesn’t do the trick of shutting down his thoughts, and all Gerard can think about is planning his applications to shows, maybe putting together one of his own, getting to work on a new series so he has something new to submit. He’s freaking out a little and he’s never been one to handle pressure well. When he gets an invitation from somebody he graduated with to a tiny little house show, he almost declines. But then he remembers that in his search to do every mind-quieting activity he knows, he hasn’t recently tried sex. His just needs to dim the lights for a little while, maybe without dropping too much cash or wreaking havoc on his complexion like all the other substance-centric options. 

Some terrible band is playing in the front room, loud and off-rhythm and drilling into Gerard’s head so he can feel the echo of his future hangover. He can’t bring himself to mind too much, though, because he has a beautiful boy in his lap and he’s probably gonna get to fuck him. 

He has cropped blond hair and loose black jeans and he’s playing with Gerard’s long hair. They’re making out, now, and Gerard pulls back to get a better look at him. The guy’s expression is blissed out and kind of sleepy, in a sexy way. He slides his mouth down to the blond’s neck and is slowly, steadily drifting south. 

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he hears from over his shoulder. Gerard startles and detaches from the collarbone he’d been tonguing at only to see Frank, looking very pissed. Gerard, for one, is so over this. He’s done caring what Frank says to him, ever. Not like that stops him from talking. “What are you even doing here? Ugh!” 

“Go to anger management classes!” Gerard shouts back and then gets back to what he was doing. Blondie doesn’t seem fazed, and still seems into it, letting out breathy little sighs and inching forward on Gerard’s lap. 

“You can’t fuck here!” Frank says, a little shrill. 

“I thought you were supposed to hate cops. Why are you doing their jobs for them?” Gerard says. He keeps eye contact with Frank as he licked, this time. 

“Dewees convinced his housemates to let a bunch of strangers in so we could all bond over music, and I’m not letting you repay them with fucking... bodily fluids sprayed across the furniture!” Frank says. All of a sudden he’s a lot closer. He’s swatting at the blond guy now, correctly assuming that he would be an easier target. 

“I have... friends,” says Frank. “Taller, bigger ones. I’ll go get them if I need to. Stop being such assholes.”

“Don’t fucking touch me,” blondie says and gets up to leave. “Do you know him?” He turns his gaze to Gerard.

“Not exactly. Uh, go wait outside, I’ll grab us a cab.” He follows instructions, leaving Gerard alone with Frank. Or the other way around. Gerard scowls and puts on his bitchiest face.

“Are you always like this, or do I just turn you on that much?” Gerard asks.

“It’s a little bit of both,” says Frank. “So you’re leaving, right?”

“Maybe I’ll stick around,” he says. But he gets up and heads for the door, of course. His dick’s doing the driving now.  
\---

Back at Gerard’s, they roll around on the couch for a while.

“So uh, I don’t think I caught your name,” Gerard says sheepishly after he yanks blondie’s top off. He watches lean muscles flex under his tan skin, touches a hand to the light dusting of hair leading to his crotch. 

“Jared,” he says in that weird flat voice.

“Cool. Uh, Gerard.” He’s feeling uncomfortably sober right now but feels like it’s a major hookup faux pas to chug a beer before getting into bed with someone. Their names are stupidly similar and he stops a giggle before he embarrasses himself. “Wanna head to-- to the bedroom?”

“Fuck yes,” Jared says, extending a hand dramatically, so Gerard takes it and leads him there. It’s not like the apartment is huge enough to get lost in. It really, really isn’t, no matter what people might snark to him about. It’s just not a studio like all his broke artist friends are used to. So what if there’s a dining room, it’s literally not that unusual. He stops that train of thought before it sours his mood. 

Gerard pushes the door open, and shoves Jared down on the bed. Jared grins for the first time that night and his hand goes to his waistband to unfasten his stupid jeans. 

The bedroom has a nice-ass mattress even if the room is kind of filthy with its overflowing ashtrays and takeout coffee cups decomposing, scraps of paper everywhere. Gerard doesn’t let the cleaning lady in here. The bed’s fine, though, and blondie --Jared-- hasn’t complained, which is a win. 

“I’m gonna suck you off now,” says Gerard as he’s fumbling with the zipper and slipping his fingers under the waistband of Jared’s underwear.

“Take your pants off first,” Jared asks.

They’re stripped down to underwear and t-shirts and Gerard trails sucking kisses down his skinny body. He makes eye contact with Jared, who nods slightly, and then he’s licking at his dick through his cotton briefs. 

“Oh, fuck,” Jared moans out. Gerard responds to the encouragement by pulling his briefs down, tasting warm bare skin. “Yeah, suck me.” 

So he does. After Jared comes in his mouth, sticky and hot, he gets a half-hearted handjob, but Jared’s lanky form pinning him down to the bed is enough to get him going. He loves feeling powerless, like this dude could just crush him into the bed as he fists his dick. Fuck. He focuses on the feeling and then he’s thinking about some kind of sexy Fight Club situation. Before long he’s coming, struggling up against Jared just a tiny bit but his hands are pinned anyway, by one of his huge hands. 

Jared stops to clean up a little in the bathroom and then gives him a nod as he’s leaving. “See you around.”

God, Gerard hopes not. He hates bringing people back to his place. 

So it wasn’t the annihilating sex he’d been hoping for, but it calmed his thoughts a little. He’s tired out now and his jaw is sore and he can feel a bruise forming on his thigh. He can pass the fuck out and have sweet dreamless sleep.

\--  
“So I hope you know by now that Frank Iero has a massive hardon for you,” Bert says to him. 

“Hmmmmm,” he responds, his mouth full of beer. 

“I mean it. He’s fucking obsessed. What other reason could there be?”

Plenty of people hate Gerard, but he doesn’t want to bring that up. “I thought he was straight.”

“No, no, I really don’t think so. What about his queercore band?”

“Queercore band?”

“Frank Iero and the Panzy Craze? Honestly, they blow. Only so many times you can put ‘we’re here, we’re queer, get used to it’ to music.” 

Gerard cringes. “Fucking yikes.”

“Right? God, we should go see them so you can see what I’m talking about. They’re always, always doing a show somewhere around here.”

“He does show up everywhere,” Gerard agrees. “We should go. Maybe I’ll feel better about it if I see him publicly sucking at something-- Bert, stop fucking laughing.” 

Bert just cracks up. “Sucking! Hey, who knows-- maybe playing makes him horny.” 

Gerard twisted his mouth and changed the subject. “So when’s your next performance?”

“Oh man, I gotta find a less strict venue. Somewhere that’s okay with small amounts of bodily fluids? There was a little spit last time I performed on campus and the main auditorium kind of banned me.” Soon enough Bert’s babbling happily about his collaborations and mad searches for a place that can accomodate his very visceral brand of performance art. It’s almost enough to make Gerard wish he was back in school. 

\----

Gerard somehow ends up taking time out of his precious Friday night to go see Frank perform with his shitty little band. He doesn’t want them to suck too bad, because he has to listen to it and he paid for it, but it would be way worse if they were any good. It sucks to be hated by a good artist. 

Gerard hangs out near the back of the venue and scrolls through his phone, spying Mikey looking especially pointy at a cool goth club on the other side of the city. He sees that Ray’s apparently performing tonight too, and feels a pang of guilt that he didn’t even know about it. Ray was his first ever roommate and was a great sport about him being a shitty person to live with. That was how they met, but Ray’s ability to melt the faces off a crowd via the power of his guitar plus his awesome taste in music was what solidified their bond. 

The hecklers tonight are creative.

“Show us your tits, Iero!” 

Frank giggles into the mic. This is the first time Gerard’s seen him looking so... happy. Even when he’s seen him wasted from across the room he wasn’t glowing like this. Like, who knew that little bastard could giggle like that? In a white t-shirt and pink shorts, no less.

“You’ll need to catch me at the Spearmint Rhino for that kind of performance, fucker. None of that tonight! I’m Frank Iero and this is Panzy Craze.” His guitar is low-slung and beat to hell, but after his introduces himself he grabs it and plays a little intro riff before opening his mouth to scream and the air around him explodes into sound and color. The lights are blurring from red to orange to yellow and he’s just wailing, stopping a few times to spit, to swish bottled water into his mouth and spit it into the front row like a fountain. That gets him a couple of shouts from the disgusted and pleased audience.

“This one’s about taking it up the ass,” he introduces the next song, and as gay as Gerard is, he still cringes in on himself when he hears Frank say that. The crowd is a mass of reactions and jeers but Frank is total calm, the eye of the storm.

Gerard tries his hardest to hear the lyrics, but Frank’s whining, slurring delivery makes it impossible to understand anything. He wants to make fun of them, wants it to be some bad attempts at erotic poetry. Because even as he thrashes around on guitar and drools on the microphone like an idiot, it’s sounding pretty good. Raw and powerful. Like Iggy Pop or something. God damn Bert for lulling him into a false sense of security. Now he has to get trashed to forget about how this guy thinks he should fuck off out of Jersey forever. Or leave. He could just leave. He shoulders his way out of the crowd and stands between the door and the bar, trying to make a decision. He sighs and goes for the bar. He doesn’t wanna spend another night glaring at his paintings.

“Whiskey sour, please.” 

Frank stops playing eventually, leading into blessed silence. Or blessed... club ambient noise. Bert shows up, picks Gerard out of the crowd even with his shaggy black hair and not the cherry red he favored when he was in school. “You okay? How was the suckfest?”

“They didn’t suck at all, asshole.” He glares. 

“They totally do, the bassist is shit.” 

“Maybe they got a new one. But I can’t believe I let you sucker me into watching that guy sing like an angel all night. I hate him even more,” he says and stirs the icy dregs of his drink. 

“Hey, sorry, man. Wanna get out of here? The anarchist co-op is having a thing tonight anyway, wanna go?” Bert’s rubbing a tentative circle on his shoulder. 

“Fuck, I just wanna be horizontal,” Gerard grumps. 

Bert groans. “Let’s get you outta here before anybody hears you say that.”

“Anybody like me, you mean?” someone says.

“Fuckin’ exactly,” says Bert. “Leave him alone, man.” 

Gerard would like to see who’s so fucking interested in him. He swivels around on his barstool and almost falls off when he sees who’s in front of him.

It’s Frank, looking a mess with his hair in his eyes and his white t-shirt plastered to his body. Gerard’s in a weird mood tonight, and drunk. So he can’t help but obviously gape at this display. Frank catches his eye and grins. He tucks his thumbs in his pockets and tugs his shorts down, just a little. Gerard’s face must do something, because Frank’s smile gets a little more evil and Bert runs a hand through his scraggly hair. 

“I’m gettin’ seriously mixed messages here,” Gerard blurts.

“You gotta stop drinking, babe! I can’t imagine you with anything but whiskey dick,” Frank responds. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Gerard rolls his eyes. “That’s not what you said last week when I almost boned Jared in your living room.”

That wipes the smile off his face. “You guys were being so goddamn gross. Ew. That couch, by the way, is from like 1980 and has never been cleaned. You should be thanking me. For saving you from that.”

“Thank you for enabling me to have hot, hot sex,” Gerard slurs. 

“C’mon Gee, we gotta get to that thing,” says Bert. “get up.”

“Whaat thing?”

He sighs. “The thing where you don’t let Frank make an asshole outta you.” 

“Sounds boring. When did you get so boring, Bert?” says Gerard. Frank is giggling, high-pitched and bubbly.

“Since I had to start babysitting your ass, oh my god.” 

He crashes on Bert’s floor that night, where he feels at home among the wreckage of CDs, clothes, fallen posters. In the morning he’ll wake up and face his life. But tonight he gets to hide in his friend’s garbage den with no responsibilities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! this was fun to write and originally i planned for this to be a lot of like Wealth Porn and lists of gerard's extravagant belongings but it kind of got away from me. more to come... sometime this month. 
> 
> the pansy craze was a drag movement in the 1930s and that's where i got frank's band name from. one of you should make a real queercore band with that name.


	2. Chapter 2

Gerard has the world tuned out, big noise-canceling headphones over his ears. He’s doing the underpainting for a crowd scene, nightlife out at somewhere local and scrappy. Normally nights out are depressing in retrospect, or before you get buzzed enough. It’s a soul-sucking little dirty room where you’re crammed up against a bunch of similarly miserable people, all looking for an outlet. He mainly goes out to avoid the shame of getting trashed by himself. But seeing the vitality of the crowd when Panzy Craze was playing helps him understand it a little better. Maybe it really is a social thing for some people. You go out to see your friends and hear bands and shit like that.

 

Just then his phone buzzes and since he’s feeling all kumbaya and open to social experiences, he picks up. It’s a text from Daniel. Daniel who always has coke. Gerard fidgets with his paintbrush, looks at the clock in his studio. He needs to get more work done. But does that ever stop him? Fuck no. So he accepts Daniel’s invitation, flinging his paint brushes into the sink and fluffing his hair with his hands on the way out. He shrugs on a disintegrating leather jacket he used to wear to raves when he was in school. The leather is discolored from sweat and wear, but he feels a certain loyalty to it.

 

He ends up out at some party filled with people he would never talk to under normal circumstances. Most of them look like guys he sat next to in the handful of business classes his dad made him take. It all reminds him of high school, being the only gay person around and the most interesting by default.

 

Daniel has a baggie for him, like he expected. Fifty bucks later he’s sorted out, and the manic, talky mood coke always puts him in makes him want to stay at the party, no matter how out of place he feels.

 

Gerard spends most of the night shooting the shit with some straight guys who look at him like he’s something totally alien, but cool enough for them to want to check out. Like a funny little animal or something. He kind of likes the thought of being a cool interesting alien, actually. He’s definitely the most exciting person these guys have met recently.

 

“You guys know the Pixies, right?” They all shake their heads. “No, no, I know you do. They have that song, you know, at the end of Fight Club. It starts with that kind of warbly ‘oooooo’ noise--”

 

“Fuck yeah! What a cool song, man,” one of them says.

 

“Yeah, Josh! That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Anyway, they’re so perfect for this kind of freezing, dry and dirty Jersey winter night.” Josh whoops and tells Gerard how he has a fucking poet’s mind, seriously, he never would have thought of associating music with a kind of weather. Gerard smiles and takes another shot.

 

The last thing he remembers that night is breaking away from his new adoring buddies to go smoke outside. None of them smoke, because they all played sports in high school, so he gets to go alone. Even though they’re in a filthy, smoggy city the garden plants make him feel almost serene as he sucks down two cigarettes in a row and lets the nicotine soak in.

 

Gerard wakes up feeling bruised, head throbbing, on somebody’s floor. It’s not the house from the night before. He doesn’t know how he got there. He gets up and sees there’s a puddle of piss he’s been lying in. Gerard doesn’t know what to do about that so he just leaves. Let God sort it out, he decides. He takes the bus home and stands, knowing he stinks of piss but hell, that’s public transportation for you. Soaking in other people’s stench is just part of the deal. Today it’s him stinking up the place, tomorrow it’ll be one of his fellow riders burning his nostrils.

 

Gerard’s really wishing he had his sunglasses. As soon as he gets home he heads for the shower, even though all he wants to do is lie facedown on the bed.

 

\---

 

By the time evening rolls around, he’s really not feeling so hot but Ray’s playing at Counter Point tonight. Ray is expecting him and anyway, he wants to go. He can do this. A few aspirins later and he’s ready to go out and stand quietly in a corner, if not exactly party. Counter Point is a familiar place, and about as comforting as a place away from home can be.

 

The place is pretty packed tonight, and Gerard's really pleased for Ray. He seriously deserves this. Gerard feels better about spending another night pressed up against sweaty, drunk strangers. This is his community, or something. It's Ray's, at least.

 

Because Ray is kind of a control freak, and still a basically broke independent performer, he always unloads and sets up his own equipment. “This is America,” someone shouts as Ray’s fussing over pedals and cables. No fucking shit, Gerard thinks, and rolls his eyes. But the dude in the crowd's not done. A couple minutes later he opens his idiot mouth again. “Why don’t you go home, fucker? Back to where you came from!” This time Gerard catches sight of him and it’s some Cro-Magnon type, obviously. Which means Gerard can’t go over and give him a piece of his mind unless he wants to lose a few teeth, and he really doesn’t.

 

Ray ignores him, but Gerard sees him frown. Fuck this asshole, he thinks. Gerard’s shaking his head and then he sees someone shoving his way through the crowd to get to that massive guy. He looks closer and sees it’s Frank. The guy looks ready to kill, but there’s no dealing with these nazi types, so without thinking about it too hard he grabs Frank, holds him back. One arm, at first, then when he stops to look at him he grabs the other arm too.

 

“Man, what the fuck?” says Frank, trying to get out of Gerard’s clutches.

 

“Don’t hurt yourself,” he mutters into Frank’s hair as he struggles against him. On the other side of the room the asshole starts swinging without much provocation. A couple of metalheads were caught up in the action, shoving him back.

 

“He has a knife!” somebody yells, and the crowd draws back away from him. Gerard blanches, and Frank stops squirming so he drops his hold on him, putting a hand on his shoulder instead. The place’s bouncers come over, and somebody threatens to call the cops. Everybody has backed off from the guy. No one likes a knifing, fuck that. A fist fight is one thing, but using weapons is another. The place is a cacophony of yelling, people telling him to get the fuck out, people jeering, people egging him on.

 

After a couple minutes of Cro-Mangon trying to provoke people into fighting him again and not getting a response, he turns around and amazingly, shockingly, he leaves. As he’s leaving Gerard catches a glimpse of a big, fuck-off Iron Cross tattoo. Not very subtle.

 

“Woooo!” someone in the crowd yells, and then other people join in too. “Get the fuck out of here!”

 

“No cops at Counter Point!” someone yells. “Myra, don’t fuckin’ suggest that again! I promise I will tell you exactly why the fuck our policy is not to...” Gerard stops listening at that point. He looks at Ray, who had stopped setting up and was just staring into the audience to see what was even going on. Once it settles a little, he starts to talk.

 

“Uh.... Hey, guys. I’m Ray, and I’m definitely not fucking ‘going home,’” he says into the mic, and the entire room cheers at him. “To like, Belleville? Not too far from here! Jersey born and raised, baby." He shakes his head. "I have a couple songs for you guys tonight, and I’m so glad to be here with all of you. Fuck those pricks who try to throw their weight around here!” Gerard claps and whistles along with other people in the audience.

 

Gerard’s preparing to chill out and let Ray blow his mind anew when Frank turns to look at him.

 

“You fuckin’ asshole,” Frank mutters, and shoves him back against the railing separating the bar from standing room.

 

“Ouch, fuck.” Gerard feels like under different circumstances this could be pretty hot, though. Frank manhandling him. It didn’t even hurt that much.

 

“I wanted to fuck that guy up. None of that bullshit ‘take America back’ shit around here,” he says, tugging at his hair. He looks agitated.

 

“Uh, yeah, looks like everybody agrees with you. Don’t be a hero, man. You didn’t that look on see his face. Dude was unhinged. Anyway, you should be glad I didn’t fuckin’ let you get knifed!”

 

Frank crosses his arms. “We don’t even know if he had one,” he says, glowering at the floor.

 

“Yeah, well, maybe you can ask security later.”

 

“You know no one’s gonna have a straight answer for that. Everybody’s already setting off in fifty directions about what happened, and we were all here for it.” Frank laughs. “It’s gonna be this mythical triumph for the Jersey punk scene. But face it, we don’t do enough to keep Nazis outta our clubs and workshops and stuff. That’s why this shit happens.”

 

“You don’t think he was just looking for a fight?”

 

“Of course I do. I just wish I’d had the chance to give him that fight. And break his face.” He glares pointedly. “And I wish he’d known shit would go down if he tried anything here.”

 

“Yeah, you and every other macho asshole in here,” Gerard says. “It probably would have been the other way around. Then you would’ve had to have a big identity crisis over having your pretty face ruined.” Frank’s looking at him with a funny expression. “What? I bet you’re so used to gettin’ away with shit just because you’re cute. I don’t know what you’d do if you had to actually deal with people getting mad at you like the rest of us.” Gerard’s letting his big stupid mouth take over, but whatever.

 

Frank’s really close to him, he could reach out and touch his shiny hair. Gerard hates his stupid hairdo and he really wants to run his hands through it and mess it up. Maybe even in bed.

 

“I’m cute, huh?” Frank says finally. He’s kind of yelling, because Ray is still on and his drummer is super intense.

 

Gerard shrugs at him. “That’s all you’re getting from me today. Two compliments are more than enough.” Frank smiles at him, almost like he’d been enjoying himself.

 

“Alright. Well, I gotta go get out there. Let people know I’m still alive and all.”

 

Gerard manages to have a pretty calm night, and when Ray finishes his set Gerard has a beer ready for him. They get deep into conversation about Lord of the Rings, and how it holds up compared to modern fantasy series.

 

“Imagine if Led Zeppelin had taken their cues from comics instead of dense-ass fantasy literature,” Ray’s saying.

 

“That sounds really fucking sweet,” says Gerard. “Hey, you should totally do that. Nobody else is. Get in on the Marvel cash cow or whatever.”

 

Ray snorts. “I’m not really one for writing metaphors and like, convoluted plots into songs. That sounds like more your thing.”

 

By the end of the night, Gerard remembers in full force how nice it is to spend time with Ray and pledges to remind himself to do it again. He doesn’t need to drink himself blind to cope with hanging out with him. That seems like a good thing. How many other people can he say that about?

 

\----

 

The next time Gerard is at an art show he doesn’t feel the same creeping dread he’d started to feel whenever he went out. He can actually look around at the sculpture and video projections without checking over his shoulder all the time. The past few months had been a social nightmare. But Frank’s on his side now, more or less. The side that hates Nazis and bigots. It’s weird, seeing how much of a central part of the scene he is. Gerard’s never seen anybody so involved in a social scene.

 

He asks Ray about it, eventually. “What’s the deal with Frank? He’s fucking always around.”

 

Ray laugh. “That’s the idea, yeah. This scene practically raised him. He loves it, even if it doesn’t always love him back.”

 

Gerard thinks it seems to love him pretty well. He says as much to Ray, who looks something in the neighborhood of embarrassed. “Not everybody. Frank’s an acquired taste, you know?”

 

Christ, does Gerard know.

 

“So people have beef with him.”

 

“That’s one way of putting it. He tries, he really does, but he’s messy as fuck. Always picking fights and sleeping with the wrong people.” Gerard’s suddenly really interested in the bad romantic and sexual decisions Frank’s apparently making, but he doesn’t want to push Ray too much.

 

He makes a noncommittal noise of interest. “Huh. Wouldn’t have guessed.”

 

Ray reaches out and ruffles his hair. “Satisfied, you nosy bastard?”

 

Gerard snorts. “I’m just getting started.”

 

Frank interests him. He wants to understand what makes him tick, why he’s such a fucking asshole, why he’s obsessed with Gerard.

 

Normally in a situation like this, he would get Mikey to scope things out, since he knows practically everybody in Jersey. But Mikey’s so allergic to the whole unwashed alternative anarchist deal that he probably just doesn’t know anybody relevant. Gerard texts him anyway, just in case. If nothing else Mikey’s somebody to vent to. “I think I want to fuck this guy who’s trying to bully me out of being an artist” is a really stupidly high school situation to be in, and Gerard doesn’t know who else to complain to.

 

Moments later he sees an incoming call from Mikey.

 

“That was quick,” he says.

 

“I could say the same thing,” says Mikey. “Trust you to fall for the first guy to give you shit like this in years. Why are you so into the whole bad boy schtick?”

 

“My wires must have gotten crossed sometime in early childhood,” Gerard suggests. "Also, have you fucking seen him? But wait, who said anything about falling for him?”

 

Mikey ignores his second question. “Yeah, something like that. I definitely don’t know him but I know some people who do. He went to Saint Anne’s for high school, apparently? Bet he leaves that out of his punkass personal history when he meets people. You know who else went to Saint Anne? Our dad, man.”

 

“Damn,” Gerard says. “That place is snobby as fuck, isn’t it? I bet he hated it.”

 

“He must have. Pete says everybody shoved him around and beat up on him. Since he was a scholarship kid, he could never fight back. Like, you know how discipline goes at those places. Only applies to the poor. Which is like, anybody who isn't a yearly donor.”

 

“Fuck, of course. That makes almost too much sense.”

 

“Maybe that’s why he wants you. Like, you’re a stand-in for all the hot dudes who made his life hell.”

 

“Mikey, I swear to god, you’re practically an anthropologist, the way you gossip. You could write local histories or something. Show the seedy underbelly of all the nearest powerful institutions.”

 

Mikey makes a hissing noise that’s probably a laugh. “Maybe someday. If I lose my interest in clubbing and like, fashion.”

 

“Hurry up and do that already so we can get dad off our backs.”

 

Later on Gerard wonders who the hell this Pete guy is again, but it doesn’t matter as much as getting Frank to see him as more than just a trust fund. He can totally prove he’s not some asshole homophobic jock who uses Daddy’s money to go around harassing people. Gerard’s way better than that.

 

It’s not like he needs everybody to like him. He just needs Frank not to hate him.

 

\----

 

Gerard is talking to one of Mikey’s friends, or trying to, anyway, when he spies Frank lurking by the wall nearby. He figures anything is better than trying to talk to Oren, so he dips out politely. Oren doesn’t seem to mind. This is exposure therapy, he thinks to himself. Talk to Frank first before he has a chance to be a dick.

 

“Any luck rooting out Nazis from the Jersey area?” he calls to Frank. And hey, this is new. Interactions based on something besides how much Frank thinks he sucks.

 

“I’m working on it. I’m hosting this anti-Nazi art workshop at Counter Point sometime next month. People can bring in their designs and screenprint them, we can work on t-shirts and posters and patches so we can show off how much we all hate fascists.”

 

“That sounds cool as fuck.” If this were anybody else, Gerard would immediately offer his services. But Frank is weird about... most things. So he holds back just a little.

 

“Yeah. We’re looking for artists with screenprinting experience right now,” Frank continues.

 

Fuck. That’s really as close to an invitation as he can expect, he thinks. So he takes the plunge: “Well, that was one of my main jams back in school,” he says. Frank’s expression flickers, and he realizes bringing up school was a stupid move. But Frank nods anyway, and gives him the details.

 

“We need as many hands working on this as possible,” he explains. Like he wants Gerard to know this doesn’t mean shit about them being friendly. Like Frank's just setting aside his personal feelings for the sake of the Greater Good.

 

\---

 

Gerard shows up about ten minutes after the event was scheduled to start. At first he thinks maybe he got the date wrong, because the place is pretty empty. He's never seen it like this before. But he passes the racks of books and zines to the workspace and sees Frank there, with a few other people. He’s joking and laughing with them, and they have a couple bags of snacks lying around. Frank looks happy and comfortable and Gerard realizes he’s about to be very out of place among this group of friends. As he shuffles forward, Frank looks up from his work and seems surprised, his eyes widening as they meet Gerard’s.

 

“Hey,” he says dutifully, waving a hand in the air.

 

“Are you uh, working on designs right now?”

 

“Yeah, that’s the plan,” he says, smiling just a little.

 

This is the first time he’s seen Frank in a low-stakes setting, instead of a party or show. His voice is softer and he’s more relaxed. He introduces Gerard to his friends, James and John.

 

“So I was thinking this could be a weekly thing,” he says. “Like, get together and make art to fight fascism. It’s the least we can do, right?” Gerard nods. “Do you have any design ideas?”

 

“I have a few stencils made already,” Gerard says, digging them out of his bag. James crowds up behind him.

 

“Holy shit,” James says.

 

His patch design reads NAZI PUNKS FUCK OFF, with a combat boot crushing a hand. Frank glances at James from across the room, then saunters over. It’s like he’s gotta see it for himself, whatever it is that impressed his friend so much.

 

“Nice,” Frank says grudgingly. Gerard can practically hear the internal battle taking place. Just because they’re on normal speaking terms doesn’t mean he wants to like Gerard. But the place is empty aside from him and a few friends.

 

“What do you guys have?” Gerard asks.

 

James snickers. “We’re mostly here for moral support.”

 

“Frank is workin’ on something, though,” John pipes up.

 

“Yeah,” says Frank. “It’s uh, not finished.”

 

“What, are you shy all of a sudden?” Gerard’s mouth takes off without him.

 

Frank glares daggers.

 

“Man, now you’re never gonna see it,” John says helpfully. Gerard just keeps his mouth shut as he sets up the screen and ink and gets to work printing cotton patches.

 

Gerard gets a lot of work done that way, and Frank doesn't snap at him for the rest of the night. James almost seems to like him.

\----

 

“Alone again this week?” Gerard breaks the silence in the workshop.

 

“I wasn’t alone last week, fuck off,” comes Frank’s voice. 

 

“So you are this week, then. Cool, I’m here to join you. Maybe make things less lonely.” He works hard to keep the suggestive tone out of his voice. 

 

Frank shrugs. “So what do you have for me? 

 

Gerard shows him. It’s some scrap denim, thrift store pants he cut up, and his own jeans from a stupid grunge phase he had. 

 

“We can use this,” he says. “Upcycled or whatever. I had it lying around.”

 

“Cool, we can always use more, but in the future you can use our stash.” Frank shows him to a huge plastic bin filled with scraps of weird fabric.  “So let’s get to work.”

 

The afternoon passes quietly, miraculously without incident. 

 

“See you next week, Frank,” Gerard says as he leaves. 

 

“Next week?” Frank asks.

 

“Yeah, you said every week?”

 

“Uh. I guess I did. You’re gonna be here?”

 

“Well, that was the plan,” Gerard says patiently. “So, bye.”

 

Frank grunts.

\---

 

The next week, Frank greets him almost like a normal person. 

 

Gerard sets up his work at the screen, prepares his sen

 

“Hey, I’m sorry for ragging on you so hard. Y’know, over the past few months. I was just trying to initiate you, man.” Frank’s voice is even, but he’s staring a hole into his sketchbook. 

 

“Thanks,” Gerard says flatly. He knows it’s a lie.  “Any-fucking-way, here’s a sample of the patch design I carved. Take a look. You’re welcome.” 

 

“Sick.” 

 

The patch is pretty simple, squiggly lettering that reads “QUEERS RUN THESE STREETS.” Gerard thinks it’s sick, too.

 

He has a few others in mind: Immigrant punk, in homage to Gogol Bordello. A couple more. Frank gave him a statement from Counter Point to whip into a poster. 

 

“Sure you don’t want to do it yourself?” Gerard asks. He doesn’t want to seem like a dick,  hoarding the best assignments for himself. 

 

“Are you getting lazy on me, Way? This is like the one thing you’re good for.”

 

Because Gerard can’t shut up, he says, “I just mean, you want to do art, right? This would be a good starting point. It’s like, you could spin this as a private commission and it would look so good on your resume. Or CV, fucking whatever. And then you could do this for other companies, maybe.”

 

Frank stays quiet for a moment too long. 

 

“I do not want to make fucking posters for the dry cleaners or the new hummus spot downtown, fuck. You know what I really want to do? Deliver mail.”

 

“Deliver mail?”

 

“I could be the cool, weirdo delivery person who rides a bike instead of a mail truck. Yeah. Next time you draw up a little career plan for me, please make it so I can figure out how to get that sweet government money.”

Gerard sighs, like, Frank can’t just say no, he has to do a whole thing. 

 

“Okay, forget I said anything.”

 

Frank shakes his head. “I’ll do my best. You just take the job, okay?” 

 

\-----

Gerard starts to spend a lot of his free time in the print lab, which is also the bike workshop. So he sees a lot of Frank. Literally as well as figuratively, when it warms up and Frank starts wearing tiny tank tops. Gerard privately tries to get a count of Frank’s tattoos, but once he gets into the smaller pieces he figures there’s no way to count up all that shit without getting real fucking intimate.

 

The workspace is on the third floor of a building with huge walls of windows letting sun in, so the heat all gets trapped and it’s about ten degrees hotter in the place than it is outside. When the temperature climbs above 80, one memorable afternoon, Frank strips his shirt off completely. 

 

“Oh my god,” Gerard says faintly, knowing he sounds like a senior citizen clutching his pearls. He can’t help but feel scandalized at the display of smooth skin in front of him. Frank’s shorts pinch into his hips a little, but there’s still visible muscle shifting below the skin. 

 

Facing the reality of his shirtless body is too much for Gerard to take, after guilty moments noticing his shirt ride up while he’s working. Gerard can’t help but size him up, a habit left over from life drawing classes. He’s sure as fuck not drawing Frank anytime soon, but he takes it all in anyway: broad shoulders, easy muscles in his forearms. His chest muscles and the brown of his nipples. Gerard wonders if they’re sensitive, what noises Frank makes when people suck on them.

 

Gerard knows he’s staring, but he can’t stop himself and he doesn’t really want to try. Frank catches his eye at one point, and he looks smug. He tilts his head up so Gerard gets the full impact of his sharp jaw and inviting smile. Gerard doesn’t want to give him anything else to hold over his head, so he spends the rest of the day working on prints for the local shops with extreme focus. He gets a ton of work done and Frank lays an appreciative hand on his arm as he looks over the work at the end of the day. A major win, overall. 

\---

 

“Hey, Gee, I have one for you. Since you’re working with white ink already.” Frank slides over a square design with bold lettering. “Here’s some fabric for it.” 

 

“‘Murdered fascists make no noise,’” Gerard reads out loud. “Nice. I’ll get to that once I finish the last few of this one.” 

 

“Thanks. I came up with that one, you know.” Frank leans on the counter, probably getting black ink all over the sleeve of his hoodie, which is also black. Gerard can feel him watching as he sweeps ink over the stencil, pushing it back and forth with the squeegee until he thinks it’s done.

 

“I love it.” 

 

“Well, good.” Frank doesn’t budge. “I’m gonna sit here until you finish, if you don’t mind.”  

 

He’s sitting close as fuck. Gerard swallows, suddenly aware of how loud his throat is. “Sure.”

 

“Listen, Gee--” Frank starts, and Gerard drops the squeegee he’d been holding.  _ Gee. _ “Uh. Need help?”

 

“No, you can keep going,” he manages. He fucking  _ knew  _ something was up.

 

“Okay. Like, I really appreciate all your help around here,” Frank sounds so fucking earnest. “So many fuckin’ people agreed to come and do the job you’re doing now. But do you see those bastards anywhere around here? Of course not. You’re actually reliable, unlike most punk assholes.”

 

By the time he finishes his little speech Gerard is grinning for real. Sure, his compliments for Gerard are structured around bitching about other people. But that’s better than he’d hoped for. He’s starting to think Frank might actually like him. 

 

“Careful, Iero. You wouldn’t want me to get the wrong idea. That you actually like having me around.” 

 

Frank just rolls his eyes. “I just appreciate the free labor. Plus I know you can afford to give it. Get back to work, print-monkey.”

 

Gerard does get back to work, but he feels Frank’s presence more intensely as he moves around the workspace for the rest of the night. Even when he faces away he has the sense of Frank being there, and it’s kind of fucking with his stomach. He even turns down Frank’s offer to get him something on his coffee run, that’s how jittery he is.

\---

 

Gerard has a series he’s been working on. The paintings are meant to look like embroidered patches, in homage to punk and gay culture of the 70s. He imagines them all on a huge jacket belonging to a giant. Spending so much time printing shit for free or for low cost with Frank at Counter Point gave him a new respect for the shit people use to adorn their clothes. Patches, buttons and other adornments have been a way for marginalized communities to express themselves for fucking years. 

 

He spends his days working on it and trying not to drink so much he has to spend the next day recovering. Most of the time, he’s successful. The routine of going in to the print studio a few times a week helps him stay on track. 

 

Frank even texts him sometimes to make demands on Gerard’s valuable time, like:

 

_ can you pick up some more black ink??? like ofc we always fucking need more. maybe get a couple jars _

 

Gerard doesn’t even mind, because it gets him out of his apartment for reasons that have nothing to do with booze.

 

“I never thought I wanted any kind of routine, but like. It’s nice coming in here,” he admits to Frank one afternoon. He expects some kind of ribbing from Frank, as per usual, but Frank nods at him.

 

“I’m glad it helps. You know, you look less like you slept in an alley last night than usual. I think it suits you.”

 

“Hey, I haven’t slept in an alley since... does that night you scraped me off the floor count?”

 

“I think it counts enough. Hell, I almost let you sleep there.” 

 

“Well, thanks for not doing that.”

 

Frank grins.

 

Later in the afternoon, as they’re both finishing up, Frank asks him,  “Hey, what are you doing tonight?” 

 

Gerard actually has to think for a minute. “Painting, probably.”

 

“Hm. Sounds pretty boring.” Before Gerard can respond to this blatant disrespect, he says, “You should come with me to a reading here tonight. Like, the main part of Counter Point and not this weird back room.”

 

“Uh, what’s the event?”

 

“Some reading my friend put together. Zines, poems, that kind of shit. Someone has a book coming out and she wanted to share the stage with her friends.”

 

“Will you heckle me if I get up and read something?” Gerard asks. 

 

“No way is that happening, Gabby signed everybody up already and this shit is planned out down to the minute. This ain’t an open mic, kid.” 

 

“Oh, well, I don’t know then,” Gerard says, frowning obnoxiously. 

 

“Don’t you want to see me in my natural habitat? Come on, Gee, it’ll be fun.” It's like Frank _knows_ Gerard likes that nickname. 

 

So now Gerard has to fucking go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow i had this written for a while actually but may kicked my fucking ass. the month was terrible and busy and i'm posting this now because i'm sick and avoiding real work.   
> anyway "murdered fascists make no noise" is my favorite lyric written by frank hahaa. it WOULD look cool as a patch and someone has probably done that before.


End file.
